From the deck at the back of my home, I can see a charming little trail winding its way through the woods. If you follow that trail to the left, you will go past a large green field, through sturdy trees and picturesque houses, and end up in a wide plaza, with shops, stores, and restaurants. If you instead follow the trail to the right – my favourite way – you will walk through a shaded path, crisscrossed by rays filtered through pines and firs, and reach the edge of rippling, glinting Lake Anne. Were you to overcome the temptation of the cafés and bistros on its edge, you would eventually arrive at a crossroad of a small street and a broad avenue and know that you have again lost your heart to a heartless city. 

Not just from the sunlit deck, but even from my living room with its pride of a generous window, I can see anyone who takes the winding trail, morning or evening. When I wake early, with a cup of coffee in my hand, I watch some children, the stragglers, take the back road to a school nearby. An hour or so later are the early joggers, taking their run before they go to work. In the evening, you see the elderly plod for their daily constitutional. A little later come the young couples, who like to pass the privacy-giving bushes in the gathering dusk. In the afternoon the trail is relatively deserted, except for the occasional hausfrau walking lazily to the local store or some lonely kid kicking a misplaced twig on his way to the playground.

The striking difference in my eyes is the older man who trudges, at some unpredictable hour, along the trail, carrying an oversize bag. Even his direction is unpredictable: some days I see him going eastward, and on the other days, he goes in the opposite direction. There is no special hour of his passage, except I have never seen him very early and very late on the way. 

I hesitate to call him an old man, for he looks sturdy enough, though he can’t be anything less than sixty- five. He looks nearly six feet, of medium weight, with a slight stoop, and walks with a determined step, as if he is very sure of what he is about to do. That makes me wonder every time about his intended mission. What is he going to do? 

He wears a neat Madras shirt, blue jeans that always seem pressed, and a bluish all-weather parka, replacing the last with a heavier grey jacket when the air turns cooler. His thinning salt-and-pepper hair is always tidily brushed back, and a few long strands overrun the collar of his shirt and parka. He doesn’t wear glasses, and his eyes dart left to right as he passes my house, taking in the squirrels that are forever foraging for nuts near the bend. The man is a striking figure as he strides past the trees and passes beyond my sight. 

He is striking above all because I don’t know what he is about. For most people who amble on this pathway, I can guess what they are doing, whether they are going to work or just out for a stroll. For the old man with the large bag, I have no idea. Not even the shadow of a hypothesis. He goes in different directions at different hours though mostly with the same parka and the same stride. I have no notion what he does, where he lives and why he walks at odd times with a large bag. 

And what is that bag about? What does it contain? Snacks and water? The unusually hefty dimension of his bag makes that unlikely. The contents would be enough to feed an army. Spare clothes or uniforms? His age makes an active, sweat-drenching sport an improbable theory. Could it then be the instruments for an uncommon trade? What trade would require implements of such dimension? Photography does not need more than a tripod and a few extra lenses. 

A surveyor has more streamlined folding gadgets. A cosmetologist carries a large assortment of stuff but in a more compact container. Even an arborist carries smaller implements that fit into a reasonable bag. My wild fancy has made me even recall Chesterton’s classic story of an ‘invisible’ assassin, who dons a postman’s uniform and carries out the victim’s body in a large bag. But, fancy apart, I cannot think of a good reason for that oversize bag. 

So, there I stand, on my deck or in my living room, the perennial coffee cup in my hand, watching the weekly apparition of an old man following the trail with a mammoth bag, mystified as ever by the man’s mission and his genuine identity. I realize, after many weeks, that I will never know the answer. It is unthinkable that I should walk out and accost the man and start asking invidious questions. No, I will never have my curiosity satisfied and know why he walks this way. 

Then, suddenly, the significance of the whole business dawns on me. There are many questions to which we will never find the answer. There are many, many mysteries in the world to which we will never know the solution. Of course, where our knowledge or understanding is limited, we should try to extend the frontier; that is what science or technology is all about. But we should know that mysteries will abide, to excite and entrance us. To challenge us to make the best use, if not our grey cells, at least our imagination on the winding road of life. That is what our life is all about. 

(The writer is a US-based international development advisor and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at mnandy@gmail.com )